Ransom X

By I.B. Holder

Martin Legacy was a top field interrogator before his life was shattered by a random crime. He withdrew to a basement post in the FBI, developing a mythic reputation as a brilliant malcontent. An agent brings him an active case. An abduction ring is preying on women, using them in adult films, ransomed for the price of pornography. They just took the daughter of an old friend, the head of the FBI.

• Language: English
• Publisher: I.B. Holder
• Release date: Oct 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452392417

I.B. Holder

I.B. Holder understands the importance of Internet credibility; therefore he is a tri-athlete, multi-lingual black-belt who circumnavigated the globe on a waverunner. He looks much like Daniel Craig.

Book preview

Prologue

A group of men took their positions around a young woman. They wore colored costumes all shades of the rainbow. From afar with bright stage lights burning around them, this pinwheel effect made it look like the set of a children’s show. Up close, however, it was pornography. Not the polite kind that connoisseurs of Playboy imagined the Hooters’ girls engaging in on their off days. It was the kind that made them flinch, quickly look away, and then more often than not, look back again.

On the woman’s face was a mask that looked like a boxer’s training helmet. She was on all fours on top of a wooden crate, wrapped in a skimpy leatherette costume that suggested the sluttiest side of biker chic along with the sensibility of washable attire. This business was not the place for any natural materials or fibers.

A single wall-mounted speaker in the room crackled into life through a charge of static and feedback. The intercom cast out a voice with a sadistic quality, stripping words down into metallic fragments. If the voice had either warmth or breath when it left the lips of the person speaking into the microphone, it was long gone by the time it entered the room through the frayed mesh speaker cover. It sent chills down the girl’s spine as she looked at the one-way glass separating her from the speaker in the control booth. She had come to think of the Controller as the local representative of Hell on earth.

We’re live in ten seconds. It didn’t sound like a threat, but the men dressed in the costumes reacted as if it were.

They scurried into position around the girl, her eyes darting everywhere looking for a seam in reality where she might escape; it was impossible, like trying to focus on individual raindrops, never quite settling on one before the opportunity vanished. The men all wore vinyl coverings, painted onto their fat or slender, squat or tall bodies sinking into the folds or pulling over the muscles like a second skin. The purple one spoke to her in a growl.

"This is something in the business we call sky diving. They pulled her into a position where her legs and arms were spread out like a skydiver’s, her stomach resting on the crate. It’s supposed to be a real trip, but real pleasurable for the men. A grin widened across his violet face. Isn’t that always the way it is?"

As soon as the intercourse started, he kicked the crate out from under her and she hung suspended, she was now ‘sky diving’.

The yellow one spoke, I actually heard from a girl that this wasn’t that bad.

Green responded, I don’t care what your mother told you.

Their laughter filled the room. The girl’s eyes began to water. The true professionals in the industry learned how to relieve the strain by shifting some of their weight onto the stomach of the man angled beneath, but this girl was no professional.

In fact, up until two weeks ago, she hadn’t even seen images like the one she was currently caught up in, except on a television screen at a frat party in college. She was way out of place, out of her depth back then; how far and foreign from any depth did she feel now. She was an unwilling participant, having been abducted ten days before, as she was returning home from a rally. She had been protesting the unethical treatment of animals. The irony was not lost on this sharp graduate student. She tried to find further meaning in what was happening to her, but her mind quickly slipped back into the body’s hell. The laughter all around her made her retreat further inside where her boiling anger was a ruby contrast to the fading white pale of her skin.

A barked command from the speaker, and the levity turned off, a tap gone suddenly dry as the metallic voice re-entered the room.

Shut your fucking mouths - everyone who can. The audience doesn’t want to see your mouths moving.

The controller knew what the audience wanted. He was the one behind the glass, the mastermind of a sustainable, profitable abduction scheme of which the financial rewards were approaching the point of unbelievable. He was also almost completely anonymous, or so he believed, as he sat behind a bank of monitors skimming the camera angles along the girl’s body. He watched all of the monitors at once. He somehow always knew what men wanted to see, his lean fingers punched the keys on a control panel, switching between cameras and broadcasting the images to his waiting customers.

He glanced at an open web page where the action in front of him came streaming across the net on a ten second delay. This was not a simple abduction; it was a marketing enterprise. The tender was sex, fear and pain - who could possibly get enough? A glint in the eye of the controller hinted at an internal deception - he was careful not to let himself identify which of the elements of his sex show he most preferred. The acid in his throat threatened to come up into his mouth when he spoke to the actors in the room. He kept them moving, just like the cameras. The audience loved change.

The broadcast he was producing was on transmit only and to protected sources, making the direct risk of discovery slight. He’d considered the statistical probability of getting caught and his estimates fed his arrogance. He wasn’t a kidnapper. The controller didn’t demand ransom for the girl’s return; there was no drop, and nothing to be traced back to them.

The ransom came from the accounts of the perverts of the world. Nobody ever went broke marketing to that segment of society. The controller punched up another website that marketed his video feed: live in progress for ten dollars or DVD compilation of 24 hours for fifteen. The webmaster had gone so far as to post the police report of the abduction alongside the target goal or ransom at which the girl would be released. A graphic indicated the ransom progress, and right now, she was at 65 percent. She’d started out strong, and sales from her hometown drove her into the territory of twenty percent after a few days, but business had slacked off recently.

The man in the booth knew why; the girl was angry, always requiring forced situations. There was only so much market for that. People wanted to see her change.

He zoomed the camera shot in on her eyes. She hadn’t changed since she’d walked in that room for the first time. Anger, unfiltered by the mask of civility, burned in her eyes. He was as tired of her anger as the customers were, but instead of being frustrated, he practically quivered with anticipation. If she did not meet her ransom, she would be his. He would give her every chance, put her in every position to make the required amount of money, but he secretly wanted her to fail.

Two hours later, the girl stood in the room apparently alone, when an arm reached into the pool of light and slipped under her shoulder. She looked at him and threw her arms around him. Blue.

Blue was not involved in the sex acts. For whatever reason, he was charged with taking care of the girls. He quieted her gently, adding, You’re way behind dear, we need to do everything we can, there’s only two days left. He saw her eyes sink inward, there was little left for her to give. He quickly corrected his course, But we’ll do it. We’ll get you out early I predict.

Really? She brightened, Where am I?

Close. A noise in the control room and she pulled closer to Blue, expecting the controller’s voice would uncoil and strike out at her like a snake. She kept her distance from the box speaker carving an arc shuffling toward the door.

Does he ever come out?

Blue looked at the mirrored glass with an odd look, you don’t want him to.

She stood between him and the mirror cutting off his reflection and replacing his face with hers inches in front of him. Thank you – for taking care of me. She looked for a moment every bit as beautiful and innocent as the girl next door, provided that one lives in a neighborhood where there is a girl next door who has the time and resources to be wholesome and idealistic. They took a few halting steps for the door, then her body shook with a new thought. Will I ever meet him? She tossed her hair over her shoulder and let the stray strands fall into her eyes.

Blue clicked his teeth like he was urging on a horse and smiled.

As it turned out, she was fifteen percent below target on the last day of her captivity, and she did get to meet the man in the control room.

Her body was found two days later after an anonymous tip. Her eyes remained fixed on an imaginary point far beyond where they could have seen, features etched in disbelief. Still beautiful, but angry no longer.

Chapter 1 - The Key

A sudden urgency pulsed through Legacy’s body; it was like someone had called his number and he had been waiting for a long time. He wasn’t in a waiting room; the stark but serviceable area around him was his basement office at the FBI building in Alexandria, Virginia. It was 4:30 and almost time to leave. The sharp feeling reasserted itself, confirming that there was something that needed his attention. He clicked his knuckles together in an act of concentration he’d used longer than he could remember. His fists came together and his muscular forearms began a contest. The stress on the joints in his hands was audible. His eyes searched over the desk. He hadn’t followed up on the one case that was farthest from the trash.

The brass nameplate on the door said Martin Legacy, Special Services, FBI. But that did very little to describe the man who had occupied the basement room for just over five years.

A better indicator of his personality might be the music that perpetually played in the background: a dissonant ringing that churned on for hours until unexpectedly it would erupt into a beautifully crafted and complex melody before falling apart again. The hallways around his office were famous for complaints of just having to pass his doorway and hear the racket – the workers couldn’t believe that anyone would choose to be around that cacophony, day in and day out.

The tapes were from a collection of unedited studio recordings with savant musicians. It was something that one might find playing briefly in a psychology conference. The patients playing the music had a condition that pushed them so far into their own minds that they communicated solely through music and organized their thoughts into tones, melodies and cadence. Legacy claimed that the noise did two things: it helped him think, and it kept others away. The flat, expressionless way he would relate these two results gave nothing away as to which he valued more.

Legacy scanned his broad mahogany desk searching for the item that he’d been waiting for months. An old paracentric key was the only tangible connection between living criminal and victims long dead.

A case as cold as the late autumn breeze that blew down the streets of northern Virginia had one last gasp of air because of Legacy. The crime had been committed over twelve years ago. At that time, Legacy had been in the military, leading a much different life than now. The rigid discipline of his former life had almost completely vanished.

Legacy considered organization in its traditional form to be a hindrance to his pursuit of understanding human motives, and even when pushed to organization by the necessity of his job, his efforts were less than inspired. He had marked out five sections on his desk with masking tape; each area was home to a wide array of pictures, police documents, press clippings and evidence from a single case plucked from the archives. He kept his least favorite case to the far left side of his desk and had been known to sweep an entire docket into an abnormally wide trashcan, which resided just below.

A special janitor was assigned to the office, so all of the papers that landed in the bin were processed and returned to evidence files. Legacy had no concept of the web of special treatment that surrounded him, but his breakthrough moments were enough to justify any unreasonable fuss. His genius made the world around him bend and flex to meet his needs.

After exasperating seconds of complete helpless searching, he saw something foreign on top of his phone, something he’d never dream of using.

A goldenrod sticky note read, Check your inbox and enjoy the coffee.

The inbox. How could that possibly be of use to anyone? Legacy never checked his inbox; the interdepartmental, departmental, cross-agency, internal external memo pipeline was a direct connection into the inane bureaucracy he considered functionally useless. Yet today, sitting on top of a stack of papers, most of them marked urgent was an envelope marked in block letters LOCKSMITH.

Legacy gently slid the key out of the manila housing and felt the weight on his fingers. The original he’d formed in his mind, long ago, would have been brass. The duplicate that pressed against his skin was a clean silver-plated composite metal. Legacy was prone to distraction. His mind wanted to debate the origin of the metal that he weighed in his hand, but then, he heard a single beep of his watch and came back to the present moment. Five o’clock— not much time.

How had the delivery of this key slipped past him during the day? He quickly went over all of the comings and goings into his office that day. At eleven twenty-five, the regional director had entered and asked him something; it hadn’t registered as important; he hadn’t even replied. The director got impatient and left seven minutes later. One twenty-five, someone had entered and spoke to him, couldn’t recall what. Random comings and goings of no distinction until someone had entered and set a cup of coffee, prepared exactly how he liked it on the desk. He picked up the cup and tasted the jet-black liquid, now cold, and deduced that the key must have come in with the coffee. There had been no other interruptions during the day. The internal phone had rung, but Legacy never answered the phone. His taste buds worked over the coffee until he decided that it was exactly room temperature, 72 degrees, and that enough sugar had fallen out of the solution to fix a time on the delivery. The key had been there for just over four hours.

A melody emerged from the piano clanging in the background interrupting his train of thought, a sweet harmonic sound that died as suddenly as it came to life. Legacy turned to the tape player with an uncharacteristic look of complete engagement.

He thought about how in the regular world people respond to people and leave background music in a place of inconsequence. Legacy’s experience was the opposite. He thought of all the people who had passed through his office today. Background music held his full attention, and the sounds that most people placed great importance upon were akin to the stroke of a graphite point across an interoffice memo. They meant little or nothing at all.

The key Legacy was holding in his hand was where worlds overlapped. It meant the end of a search for a killer who left absolutely no trail of evidence back to himself, and it meant the end of Legacy’s involvement in the case. It was the precipice of discovery, and even set back four hours by the interference of the inbox, it felt immediate.

As Legacy reached across the table, the cuffs on his suit started to ride up revealing two burn scars on top of his wrists. These were the cause of many discussions, and even appeared in his psych file. He always answered any questions with a blunt statement they were self inflicted and depending on who was asking he’d add I’ve put others through worse, much worse.

His hand found what it was looking for. He pulled out an old rusted sea captain’s lock from a plastic bag. On the label included with the lock it stated, Slain Couple, Barbaric Discovery Bound and Gagged

He paused, thinking about how barbarians never would waste their time on such deviant behavior. Barbarians had a clean, brutal way of life that didn’t offer much time for perverse fantasy. The minute a barbarian started planning the elaborate death of two people, he’d get his throat slit for thinking small.

Fifteen minutes passed. The key was now warm in his left hand, and the lock had rusted imperceptibly more. He needed to put his wandering mind to better use, a quick review. Legacy looked again at the folder that contained the documents on the case. A note on the front page in clear, official handwriting read, this one isn’t going to be easy. He began to draw his hands together; the key would either fit the lock or not, and it would be over. He looked at the clock and started packing up the file.

He remembered vaguely where it all belonged, a long filing cabinet marked Fridge.

The Fridge was the area where the coldest cases got their last official stamp of final review. They certainly never got solved. That was until Legacy came to preside over it. The resolution rate was something over ten percent for his predecessor, and that figure included cases that were resolved by confession or reclassification while sitting in the Fridge. Not all crimes stay crimes, almost five percent become accidents, or acts without any consequence. The regional director, prone to simplifying, called those cases AWACs.

The chief had explained the lingo to him on the first day, chuckling and snorting through what seemed to be a hilarious jargon-driven FBI anecdote.

Legacy had had to pretend he was listening, and resorted to resolute nods to convey attention; it was irrelevant to him what others called things or how things came to be. Each case was its own chaotic tune, played over a simple constant rhythm.

A silence blossomed as the chief waited for Legacy’s reaction. Nothing. Legacy should have known better and laughed, but he didn’t have much to laugh about at the time. The chief knew that Legacy was a special case, sent down from the central office. He probably forgave Legacy’s lack of interest on that day because the clothes covering him were the same he’d worn for the entire first month of his tenure at the Alexandria office - as gossip claimed, the clothes that he wore to his wife’s funeral. Actually, Legacy owned several identical dark suits and that their perception wasn’t quite true, but Legacy recognized that it was quite true that he had never completely taken off the clothes he’d worn to his wife Laura’s funeral.

Now five years later, key in hand, Legacy couldn’t muster a sign of satisfaction as the key reached the lock.

CLICK, it skated on the rusty metallic surface. There it stayed. A furl on Legacy’s brow, it wasn’t like him to be this wrong. He turned the lock to the light and realized that the keyhole was covered with a brass swivel guard that had to be moved out of the way before the key could be inserted. He’d studied the lock for hours, a thousand times in his mind, and could have described it down to the last detail with his eyes closed, but this close to the end of the day, Legacy always lost concentration.

The door opened. A woman’s voice spilled into the room, commanding and distant: she sounded like she was hailing a cab. The interruption didn’t sound the least bit important. Legacy slid the guard away from the keyhole, and that’s when someone grabbed his hand and pressed their own palm up against it, shaking it professionally.

Hello.

Legacy looked up, something about her impatient tone didn’t seem to mix with the perfectly applied make-up, and cropped black hair framing her fresh young face. She had a stiff, official posture. Legacy didn’t need to hear another word. She was a product of the academy, down from Washington on orders: ambition and charisma shared signature marks on the defining lines on her figure. It took him no time to realize that whatever she said next was going to be a lie.

I said, ‘Hello’.

Well, maybe he would have to wait. Legacy had perfected a completely expressionless expression in his days in the army, and he was wearing it now. She continued.

I’m here to help. There it was. I’m your new partner.

I had an old partner? Legacy quipped.

Agent Traxel has been your partner for three years. She pointed to a desk across from Legacy’s. He packed up over a month ago.

He wasn’t my partner.

Wagner ran a curious eye over the papers on Legacy’s desk. I know they let you do whatever you want around here-

Listen, if introducing yourself will finish this conversation, just do it and move on.

Wagner took an awkward step backward, like she felt the force of his words flow into silence, even the piano clanking from the tape player took a rest as if it were in some silent complicity with the moment. Wagner cocked her head and spoke.

I’m Agent Spears. Brittney Spears.

Legacy regained his momentum, Well Agent Spears –

What kind of music sounds like that? I mean I’ve got a cousin who plays like that, and I certainly wouldn’t reproduce it amplified.

Legacy found himself answering the question before taking offense at the remark. Later, he realized he could have ended the conversation right there.

You have to be patient, this tape was produced by a boy who can’t effectively tie his shoes.

The rattle became a loud pounding, it sounded just like -

Agent Spears chimed in, Is that him banging his head against the keyboard?

A voice in the background of the recording asked if they should stop the recording.

Wagner took quick steps around the desk and scanned Legacy’s tape collection. Each tape was labeled with an instrument, a name, recording time and the word savant.

Wagner continued, Is this what you’re going to listen to all the time? My God, who could listen to a glockenspiel for 14 hours?

Legacy looked up and found himself staring into Wagner’s deeply sarcastic green eyes. He was compelled to answer from a rusty internal social reflex. Recordings like this remind me how much can be hidden under layers of resistance, real or unreal.

Her words had the graceful arc of razor wire Are you a recording, too?

Legacy looked her up and down and then let his eyes settle on her shoes.

The music has the additional benefit of keeping civil people away.

Considering this particularly charming reception, you must be beating them off with a stick.

Legacy smiled inside, the tumblers in his brain had finally clicked, but he remained visibly unchanged as he regarded Wagner. He sat in his chair and looked straight ahead. The words were directed at Agent Wagner’s waist.

Now, are we almost finished?

It wasn’t a question. She wouldn’t, however, give up.

Is that the key? Does it fit? Wagner continued. They want me to learn from you. I tried being polite earlier when I delivered the key, it didn’t work. The phone rang, Legacy didn’t move. Wagner fixed on Legacy’s eyes, which remained totally still, as if the sound didn’t even register.

Aren’t you going to get that? Pointing to the cradle attached to a curling wire that brought the phone into Legacy’s world.

What if it’s a call from your daughter?

The word daughter brought Legacy back into the world where people pick up phones and listen to other people’s voices.

I have a cell phone. It was a reflex; he’d trained himself to always immediately respond to anything concerning his daughter. He wondered, as he continued, if he’d been trapped into a conversation by Agent Spears or if coincidence was keeping the communication lines open. A part of him wanted to believe that it was pure manipulation on the young agent’s part. He could respect that. Coincidence was the cowardly way the world kept things in motion. The notion that he might have wasted ten minutes on coincidence angered him.

I haven’t tried the key yet. I don’t answer questions; those are my rules. Legacy found a crumb of sympathy crunching under his foot. Ask for a transfer, today. I am your superior, right? She nodded, You are dismissed.

Legacy had no way of knowing that her orders had come from the very top; there was no way to change her assignment. Something about his tone said that she would have to set the place on fire to get his attention again. She had one last ploy.

The agent’s cell phone rang, a melody of Bach she’d downloaded off the internet. Plunging her hand into her coat pocket, she headed for the hallway, reaching the door. Legacy’s voice called out from the office, unexpected, forceful.

Wait! Legacy was standing. Whatever had caught his attention, it was now more than merely a passing interest. Who are you?

Wagner silenced the phone. I told you –

I know, you’re Brittney Spears. Listen, my daughter is fourteen, I noticed the humor when you introduced yourself.

Does anyone really notice humor? I think you either get it, or you don’t.

That’s the ringtone my daughter chose for my phone.

She took a step back into the office. Look, I have an important assignment. It’s only my second assignment and the first didn’t end up well, so this is it for my career at age 23.

I went through the same thing at 29.

Did you go through it as a woman?

Legacy hadn’t expected that; a hint of interest lit his eyes.

I see you are beginning to get me.

Legacy paused and put all aspects of her behavior since she had entered the room into an equation. An invisible timeline of events dangled in the periphery of his thoughts, and like a three-dimensional puzzle, all he needed to do was focus his eyes on an indistinct point in front of him. He squinted as his mind went through a series of approximations that usually led him to a definite conclusion. When his eyes focused again on the room, Wagner was standing in front of him, holding the key; he could tell that she wanted him to offer up the lock. She was unlike anyone who had knocked on his door in years – everybody wanted something from Legacy. She did too, but it was clear that Agent Wagner understood that asking was the surest way not to get an answer in Legacy’s realm.

A single beep from Legacy’s watch made him flinch. Is that your wake up call? Agent Wagner asked in a surly tone. Legacy checked his watch, and the time indicated that he had to go. In a quiet, ritual fashion, Legacy stood and prepared to leave. He blew past Wagner with the same even stride that took him to the door.

Legacy knew everything about Wagner from the moment he’d first seen her. She was the type who believed in laws, rules, and the distinct pleasure of being right by pointing to a code in a book and winning an argument without a thought wasted in contemplation of a solution. She could not be stopped in climbing the ladder in the official ranks of the bureau. He was equally sure that she had ammunition in her gun that would stop him, but short of that, he was leaving. But at the door, the room went silent. The plug to his cassette player had been ripped from the wall and Wagner stood holding the chord like a prize, daring him to notice.

Legacy stopped, still facing the door in front of him. Plug it back in before you go.

Aren’t you going to try this key? It could put a killer in jail tonight.

Nothing in the killer’s world changes by my waiting for morning. My daughter expects me home at six.

Legacy took another step, Wagner’s shoulders rolled forward in defeat. Legacy paused outside the door, his voice echoed from the hall.

Come in early, read everything in the case file, I’ll be in at nine and you can tell me whether the key is going to fit, in your opinion. Until you know everything about the case, the solution is just another answer in a sea of questions.

Wagner heard Legacy’s footsteps trail off over the concrete floors of the substructure. She walked slowly over to the desk and spread her arms in a pose of victory. She plugged the cassette player back in and, at the same moment, a stab of melodic perfection erupted from the speakers. It was like the tape was responding to her personal breakthrough, and it was gorgeous.

She flipped out her cell phone.

At the sound of a connection she spoke, I’m in.

The beauty of the tune pouring from the player collapsed into sour dissonance.

* * * *

Chapter 2 - The Talk

Not far away, at Legacy’s destination, a study session of the highest priority was going on. Three teenage girls studied with second-year French books open flat in front of them.

Nothing leaves this room, I mean it. Lane wasn’t going to budge when it came to confidentiality. I’ll have your dad go federal on anyone that tells.

Giggles, shrieks and gasps, the recurring staples of the adolescent conversation rang down the halls of the large turn-of-the-century apartment. Lane leveled a weighted stare at Chessapeake, or Chess, a bright young girl who, like the true masters of her namesake, had an intellect and intensity that asserted itself onto the world in a playful way. As carefree as she was, she had a competitive streak in her that was totally her father: she liked to win. Her emotions shone out of her eyes unfiltered by any of the baggage of adulthood—beaming beacons, ice blue, lighting up with the promise of a secret about to be told.

Trisha rushed into the silence like running water pulled a by fifteen-year-old’s hormonal gravity, Let your dad interrogate me any day, please.

Your dad is hot. Deal with it. Lane switched into a civil tone; her father was a lawyer.

It’s not her fault. Trisha’s exuberance could be explained, argued, and acquitted.

Chess scowled at her friends, but the pinched expression could not possibly hold. Chess had a natural warm smile. She’d practiced it in the mirror for hours as a child. At fourteen she had perfected a series of facial expressions that could neutralize the sternest teacher at ten paces. The smile that Lane’s comments about her dad had brought to life was filled with retribution and pride. Chess let her fingers dial an invisible phone.

Pick up the truth phone.

Lane picked up an invisible receiver. I’ve got it. Chess let her words trickle out pointedly. My father is not the subject of our conversation, n’est-ce pas? He is not the boy you made out with in the audio isolation cubes in French class is he? Shouldn’t we be talking about him?

Non, non, non. Il etait un garcon; ton pere est un vrai homme.

Chess stood and let her fingers run along the wallpaper as she strolled around Lane. There was little beyond the walls of the lovingly decorated, somehow frozen-in-time quality to the apartment. Despite the loss of her mother suffered by she and her father, the walls had echoed more of her laughter than the floors had drunk her tears in the years she’d spent growing up here. Her thoughts slowed her gait until Lane was ready to burst waiting for her to talk. Chess used the anticipation to let out with:

Est-ce que ton petit-ami – grand?

The delivery was perfect, Is your little friend, big? a squeal of laughter blanketed the room, and for a moment there were no French textbooks, there was no nation of France at all. The world disappeared outside and the three teenage girls wrapped themselves in a blanket of nonsense. The embroidery at the top read ‘best friends forever’ and it was warm underneath.

After a moment it was time to get back to the task, but the nonsense hadn’t passed.

Your top is dipping open. Or are you trying to impress us with your cleavage?

Chess looked down; she was wearing a sweater, not a single cleave in sight.

Actually, I was talking about myself. It was Lane that was blossoming quickly and her private school outfit had been modified to invite notice.

Trisha threw a quick signal at Lane and both of them checked the clock. Why do you keep checking the time?

Pas de raison. Lane’s watch beeped.

Chess saw that it was approaching six. Both of the girls were looking at the front door. They knew it would open soon. A wall clock started to chime and at exactly six the latches on the door began sliding open. Trisha’s fingers twisted nervously in her hair. Three clicks, and the door opened. Martin walked in pulling his coat off in one motion.

Dad.

He lit up hearing Chess' voice. It was a total transformation, like every bit of social energy he could gather was for her. His baby girl brought out every ounce of charm Legacy had – wooden, yet still a thousand times softer than the cold steel he so closely carried to his heart.

Bonjour! Trisha chimed in quickly. She extended her hand and Martin watched it for a moment before awkwardly shaking it. The father checked off his daughter with a glance.

We’re studying French. Chess was used to filling in the gaps with Legacy.

Really?

Oui. Actually, it’s bonsoir! Lane walked up to Martin. And they kiss hello, in France. She leaned in and stole a cautious peck on his cheek.

Martin turned immediately to his daughter, awkwardness hung in the air until he spoke.

Well, if we are going to adopt French customs from now on, you can’t give me any trouble for doing this. He kissed both of Chess' cheeks then scrubbed the top of her head with his knuckles with a half-smile on his face.

Trisha swooned audibly; Lane pushed the back of Chess' sweater. Your daughter has a question to ask, monsieur.

I was going to wait until dinner, but I guess that this is the best time. She shifted weight back and forth on her brown penny loafers.

Whatever it is, yes. Martin tapped her on the head with the newspaper he carried in his hand, then swiveled and headed down the hall.

I want to go on a date, a triple date with my best friends.

Martin stopped, a slow glance over his shoulder, With boys?

That’s what a date is, dad.

As dry as the martini that was being delayed because of this conversation darted the response.

Fine, you know the deal.

That’s not fair, it puts all the responsibility on me.

Lane chimed in, what deal?

Martin resumed a measured step toward the study door at the end of the hallway. He intoned his answer to the girls.

If Chess chooses a boy, and he hurts her, I’ll end up in jail for what comes next. The hum continued from Legacy; he loved being home, where the threats stayed in the family. Make sure he’s the right boy, a mature choice, and we’ll be fine. When Martin reached the end of the hall, he closed the study door behind him, cutting off any reply.

A truck could be driven through the silence, but it wouldn’t be loud enough to drown the peals of laughter that burst out of Trisha and Lane the moment the door latched behind Legacy.

It wasn’t ridicule, but Chess blushed a deep red in front of her friends. Chess charged after her father, I’m going to talk to him. He will say yes.

He already said yes.

He will say yes the way I want him to say yes. She crossed the floor, clop clop clop, all the way to the study. The door closed behind her.

Trisha swooned staring at the study door, My dad would never go to jail for me.

Music was coming from a stereo near a high-backed chair. The rattle of ice in a glass and the radiator at a steady volume alternating between hiss and click drowned out the noise of the door latching, or at least they should have. She had to catch him off balance.

Three careful paces into the room, Legacy spoke. A deep voice, Is this boy the one you’re going to marry?

Dad! Chess screeched. Are you trying to humiliate me? Those are my friends, they all date.

She realized the weakness of her argument and saw her chances slipping away, but then her mind landed on a trump card.

You can’t keep treating me like a child. If you do I’ll resent you later –

Where did you hear that?

I read it in a magazine.

I can’t argue with that. I relent.

Chess started for the door, victorious. The only thing missing was lip-gloss, and she dug into her pocket to make the necessary re-application before greeting her friends with a smile.

Chess was only steps away from the door.

Legacy thought back to his former training at special ops, and the days when nobody turned their backs on him. He was a black eagle interrogator, the top one percent of the top one percent: meaning he got almost every one of his clients to break. Very few of the methods he had used in the past would be appropriate for a fourteen-year-old girl that he loved so dearly. Still…

SQUEEEK. His chair produced a painfully drawn out creak that stopped Chess in her tracks. The message was delivered: it wasn’t over.

If you are ready for dating, then you’re ready for the talk.

Chess willed her feet to bolt out the door, but they stood still. What talk? she asked.

He looked over his glass waiting – Chess circled the comment like it was bait, not willing to commit. Her eyes slid to a sidelong glance.

Every girl, he continued haltingly who is dating, needs to have a frank conversation with their dad about all of the things that go on between men and women –

You mean?

Legacy tilted his head to the side neither confirming nor denying the content of the conversation waiting on her next words.

I’m not ready. She looked unabashedly horrified, defeated, and, totally wigged out. Legacy turned away. She muttered on her way out. This isn’t over, I’ll be back when I – argh - I may never date.

When the door clicked back in place, shutting behind Chess, Legacy’s relief couldn’t be contained, Good, he thought.

He’d bought himself maybe six more months of childhood. He looked at a picture on his desk of Chess in the sixth grade. She had her mother’s smile. He never wanted to lose her. Everything she did warmed his heart to its current temperature, livable.

At the same time, Chess brought with her a sense of loss that stung him to the core. She was so much like her mother.

Chapter 3 - Ask

BZZZ Agent Wagner let the phone rattle along her metal desk. She’d turned the ringer off, but it hardly mattered. The vibration traveled through her fingertips and woke her from a moment of deep concentration.

Wagner often substituted deep concentration for sleep. BZZZ this time the phone moved toward the edge of the desk. Wagner lurched forward to keep it from dropping into a wastepaper basket. The caller ID read out 14 voice mails at 9:02 AM. Totally unacceptable, she thought so forcefully that it echoed, and she wondered for a second if she’d said something aloud. Wagner had made 54 phone calls over the night with explicit instructions to get back to her by nine.

Local law enforcement professionals know better than to leave an FBI agent waiting. She wasn’t going to start thinking about reprisals until ten, but there were going to be follow-up calls, and these would be conferenced with their direct superior to get their attention.

Her cell phone suddenly burst into a polyphonic song. Only one number had been programmed to ring through and it wasn’t her mother. She stiffened up like a soldier coming to attention. She scolded herself for the reaction. People who want to lead never should allow themselves to act like – well to act like a follower. She was not a follower, and she was in fact in charge of her entire class. Wagner had decided early in her cadet days that she would be the first female FBI director, and that it would happen before the age of fifty. Probably she overcompensated when answering the phone with sudden bluntness.

I’ll be there in a minute. Then click. She’d just hung up on the principal, or in her case the deputy director. She batted her eyes quickly until moisture gleamed in the corners, then she licked her lips, an old college trick to keep men looking from her eyes to her mouth. It kept their attention to what she was thinking and what she was saying, and that is the way she liked it.

There were plenty of reasons to look elsewhere and very few reasons to be disappointed. The stares of men had followed her since her second year of training. She’d been a late bloomer and she hadn’t grown into her 5 ft. 7 inch frame until well past graduation. Wagner didn’t give a second thought to her adult appearance; it was a tool, and she maintained it with artful precision. Something inside drove her to keep a sharp edge on every tool that she had. Her face hardly showed an outward trace that she’d slept only two hours a night for over a week. Her haircut, architectural and perfect, provided a jet-black frame around a face filled with unflinching gunmetal resolve, cold and accurate. Her professional attire fit close to an athletic body. Wagner’s eyes were her real assets. On the job they seemed to stare beyond her surroundings, like they were in competition with anything that might confine her.

Natural light cast a blue tint after filtering through the dual pane windows of one of the most secure buildings in the country. It made the center atrium and social center of the complex feel more like an aquarium. Wagner looked longingly at the coffee cart line before pressing forward into busy hallways, confidently navigating the honeycomb of dividers and private offices that stood between her and the director’s large corner office. She wasn’t going to let herself overreact this time. She was comfortable, in her element, and ready for anything he could throw at her. Or so she thought. It took only one statement from the director and about three steps inside the door from Wagner before she found her composure challenged.

How in the hell can you do this to me, Bradley? Not her best opening line.

Wagner was shouting from just inside the entryway at a tall, dignified man three times her rank, twice her age. You’re putting me in left field.

Bradley Wilkes had never tolerated crap from underlings. He was the one that the cadets called Ice. He turned toward Wagner eyes ablaze. Call me Bradley again, Agent.

I’m sorry Director Wilkes-

That’s not much better. He said between clenched teeth.

I don’t want to be pulled out of the action. I’m making progress, I keep developing leads – She changed her tactic, I want to stay close to the team. I’m learning so much just working around you.

Wilkes' smile vanished before it reached the production stage. He seemed to take great satisfaction handing over a file. Wagner knew it had to contain some kind of punishment. Here’s the file, take the train down and meet his supervisor this afternoon.

With resignation, Wagner let her fingers close around the heavy envelope. It had a picture on the cover of a young man in field fatigues. In the photo, he leaned close into a man tied to a chair.

Reviews for Ransom X

[feeling9is9first · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Plot is intricate and pacing is relentless and increasingly urgent. I found myself reading at stop lights. Plenty of nail-biting moments, "don't open that door!"Writing ranges from inspired [25%] to self-indulgent [10%] with the majority being better than average thriller. Characters are fascinating with the exception of Legacy, who is as self-conscious as his name. Legacy has characteristics of Rain Man + Ninja Warrior + George Clooney.This book is tagged as erotica, but that is not accurate. Erotica uses sex as an affirmative relation-ship building experience. In "Ransom X," the sex is an act of violence and hatred, physical & emotional rape. If you are squeamish about abduction, captivity, gang-rape & internet porn, you should not read this book.

[ibholder · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Thanks for reading, and thanks for the kind review. This is my first work and I didn't cut a single page, so the 10 percent remark is generous. I will strive to get better.